Something Past Midnight
by weirdmonday
Summary: Quinn shares an encounter with Rachel in the early hours of the morning. Set during the episode 'New York'.


It must be past midnight. You've been drinking – Not too much, of course, but just enough that you're not entirely sure whether that humming sound is coming from a nearby street light or your own mouth. Regardless, you tell yourself you can handle your drink. You're in control. You're Quinn Fabray, after all.

Hesitantly, you creek open the hotel room door. You're instantly plunged into near-complete darkness. The only light is coming from (you __knew___ it_) a nearby street lamp. It offers you some slight coordination. The orange glow is streaming through the blinds in dim streaks. It's enough to illuminate the slight form of someone sprawled out across a double bed, but hardly enough to stop you from possibly tripping over a hidden object and collapsing on to an unsuspecting fellow gleek.

You agree that it's better to be safe than sorry (_see_, you can remember moralistic quotes even when you've had a drink or four. You win!). Clumsily, you stuff your hand into your purse to search for your phone, deciding to use it's screen as a light. After what seems like an eternity of rummaging, you find what you're looking for. You grin proudly after mashing it's keys with your thumb until it finally comes to life. As soon as you face the makeshift torch towards the floor, you gasp inaudibly to find Kurt cocooned in a duvet by your feet.

At first, you think that you've drunkenly managed to wander into the boy's room, even though you could have sworn to some sin-forgiving-fucking God that this was the girl's. Fuck. You sigh. Then you realize that it's Kurt Hummel we're talking about. And for some reason, you're now scowling at him through the darkness. Possibly, it's because his hair looks pretty perfect even when he's sleeping or maybe it's because he could have served as a hazardous obstacle to a drunken Quinn Fabray. You sigh again, realizing that you're only a hazard to yourself. It was __your__decision to sneak out tonight. It was __your__decision to not tell anybody where you were going, even though you didn't know yourself.

You've been selfish again.

Or have you? It's your head that's going to be hurting in the morning, no one else's. Right?

Now – back on task; manoeuvring yourself around an obstacle course of snoozing teenagers until you find a suitable place to crash. You can still hear a humming noise. Wow, how long have you seen standing here? You're surprised the light on your phone hasn't woken anyone, especially Kurt who kind of looks eerily dead when he's asleep. Prospectively, you wouldn't have advised anyone to balance on one leg whilst intoxicated, but you do it anyway, luckily finding footing on the other side of Kurt's lifeless form.

__One step at a time, Quinnie___, _you remind yourself. Part of your inner monologue is beginning to sound like your mom and it makes you want to laugh. If only your ever loving parents could see you now; drunk as a skunk in the middle of New York City. Cause for a toast, perhaps?

There's a stretch of space in front of you now which is somewhat clear and you take the opportunity to remove your heels which are beginning to kill you. You'd rather not risk falling over again so you settle in an arm chair and pull off your shoes, remembering to gently lower them down to the ground to avoid making any noise – but by the second shoe, you've forgotten that and it hits the floor with a massive thud. Nearby, someone's breathing halts as if they've just been woken up and your instinct tells you to pretend you're asleep, so you do; trying your best to keep dead still.

Silence.

Whoever it was must have gone back to sleep. You dare a glance sideways to check, just in case. Your left eye is kept tight shut and you slowly open the other to find a pair of deep, brown eyes locked on you. It scares the life out of you, and you jolt in your seat. It's the same figure you saw when you first entered the room, a rim of orangey light lining the curves of her body. It flickers slightly, but you can recognize that it's Rachel. Of course it's Rachel. Who else would take up a whole double bed to themselves? __Only__Rachel.

She must have seen how you jumped. Her stare falters slightly.

"I didn't mean to startle you, Quinn", she whispers.

You shake your head in response, "I'm surprised I didn't startle __you__".

"You did" she simply says, her voice sounding little more than a breath.

Sending a half-sympathetic shrug in her direction, you slouch into the chair and loll your head to the side. You probably won't be asleep for a while. You're still buzzing but you're sure that soon enough your drunken drowsiness will hit you like a truck.

"Do you even know what time it is?", she asks, sounding somewhat pushy. Her posture has changed and she's sitting more upright with her hand propped under her chin. She looks confident, domineering almost. She probably knows you've been drinking and she almost sounds like she's teasing you. She'd have good reason to because you actually have no idea what time it is.

"Something past midnight?" you guess.

"1:47AM" she corrects. Yes, Rachel's definitely using the situation to get one over on you and admittedly, you're enjoying it more than you should.

"_Precise_" you whisper back but it comes out more snarly than planned.

Rachel replies with a quiet but firm "Yes" before turning back over into her original position, although it's slightly more closed in than before with her knees brought in nearer to her chest. It's in that moment when you realize she's closer to you than you first thought. She's close enough that if you reached your arm outwards, you could just about touch the tip of her nose.

If sleep comes, you and Rachel will welcome it, surely.

Something is pulling you into consciousness, something undefined. You blink hard. Once. Twice. Six hard blinks and although the room is dark, it's still very much clear that Quinn is kneeling at the foot of your bed. Her knees are pressing into your own and you realize that that's where the warmth is coming from. Her skin feels like it's on fire. Your eyes dart around you and you can see the sleeping figures of your friends dotted across the room. No one else is awake, only you and Quinn.

Maybe she's sleep walking. You open your mouth to ask if she's okay but she's already leant over to put press the tip of her index finger to your lips. It silences you. Of course it would. Even when she's drunk, she's in total control. It's Quinn Fabray, after all.

It can't have been long since the two of you shared your earlier encounter, so you guess she's probably still intoxicated. That, and you can smell the liquor on her breath. The scent of alcohol instantly makes you feel like you're doing something you shouldn't be. It's true that Quinn definitely __shouldn't__be this close. In fact, you don't think you've _ever_ been this close with her. She's drunk and God knows what she's about to do next. The uncertainty is making your chest rise and fall at a concerning pace. She must have noticed that because her other hand is now resting near the dip in your neck. It only makes your breathing heavier.

You wonder what could have possibly brought you to this moment in your life. You try to rearrange your thoughts into a list of events: flying to New York for Nationals, arriving in New York for Nationals, checking into a hotel with everyone, a pillow fight, Quinn disappearing for half the evening … Quinn's finger tracing the curve of your bottom lip.

Somehow, it doesn't match up.

It doesn't match up that your mouth is opening at her touch so you can taste her. It doesn't match up that she's watching you dart your tongue against her finger, and __moaning__whilst doing so. You feel as drunk as Quinn right now and you haven't had a sip of alcohol since that train wreck of a party in your basement.

There's only one thing that makes sense right now: if Quinn slipped her hand underneath both your PJ bottoms and underwear, she'd most certainly be able to feel how aroused you are. Your hips are edging upwards and off the mattress, searching for some sort of contact.

You want her to touch you there.

Instead, her hand disappears from your lips and snaps downwards to grab your wrist. You frown at her. That's all you can do because you truly have no idea what's actually happening any more. Now she's saying something, but it's muffled and you can't understand. Her movement is telling you that she wants things to stop. __Now__she wants to stop? You want to hit her for leaving you high and dry.

"__You're___ t_he drunk one. I'm good, I'm right here. Come back" you say through sharp breaths. With that, you bring your other hand outwards to clasp over hers. It feels cold. Maybe all along, it's been __your__skin blazing with heat, not hers. This time, something cold is pulling you into consciousness. It feels like you were in a vacuum before and now you're awake, you're breathing icy air.

You're awake.

You're awake and Quinn is still sitting in the arm chair. Oh, my God, you're awake. You're awake and she's stretched over the side with her hand over yours and yours over hers. Everything in the world is making your brain hurt right now. You and Quinn have been plummeted into a deeper level of silence and neither of you could break free from it even if you tried. For some reason, you consider asking for the time, but your voice is stuck in your throat like glue. You feel like you're suffocating, and the two of you can only stare at each other through the darkness. Time has become both irrelevant and still. You no longer care for it. Seconds could be hours and you wouldn't even know the difference.

From out of the silence, something is screaming at you. She _must _have known. She must have known what you were dreaming about. Maybe you were touching yourself, calling out to her. You want to forget about it and fall into a dreamless sleep, but you're locked to her touch. You need reassurance. You need her to nod, or smile, or frown, or laugh at you, or even shake her head in disgust. Your eyes are pleading for some sort of sense.

"I have nightmares all the time" she says plainly. Her face is unfaltering. She pulls away — for good, this time. She gets to her feet and you lie as still as possible; eyes locked on her form.

For the time being, you feel okay about what just happened. You feel okay because you feel nothing, now you're awake. You tell yourself that it's impossible to draw sense from something so senseless. You're happy to leave it as something undefined and eventually, you begin to fall asleep whilst watching her. She's changing out her clothes into something more comfortable. It's still dark, yet it's bound to begin turning light soon, you can hear the city coming to life.

As she pulls her dress over her body, you feel a pang of guilt for looking. Then you remind yourself that you can barely see a thing.

It's almost as if you're not even watching her at all.


End file.
